Wordsworth (1771–1850) famously called poetry “the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings . . . recollected in tranquility.”
Poets on poetry
Emily Dickinson (1830–1886) wrote in an 1870 letter: If I read a book [and] it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only ways I know it. Is there any other way?
Coleridge (1772–1834) claimed that poetry equals “the best words in the best order.” He characterized it as “that synthetic and magical power, to which we have exclusively appropriated the name of imagination.”
Wordsworth (1771–1850) famously called poetry “the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings . . . recollected in tranquility.”
Shelley (1792–1822) joyfully called poetry “the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds.”
By Umair Rehman
In a hut, a symphony of quiet grace
A poet´s heart finds solace in a serene embrace Evening´s grace on a solitary path of silence
The downpour of feelings in poetic rain yield violence
The droplets tiptoed upon my feet
In the moonlit dance, nature greet
I closed my eyes, a canvas for thought
Beloved´s memory, for which I sought
Alone and without a feathered friend
For sharing secrets, joy´s droplets blend
Let the rain cleanse the spirit, wash away pain
A downpour of feelings, like a gentle rain
By Esha Bakht
O come over, the lovely day of spring
When butterflies flutter
And children splutter
What joy it brings.
O come over the flowery day of spring
When flowers blossom
And birds sing awesome
Tunes in their flight or nesting.
I am awed to see
The beauty of spring
That is the joy it brings
The butterflies fluttering wings
And the sweet melody a bird sings.
By Amna Ameer
I let the lies
Lay with me comfortably
I piled them up
Like clean laundry
As if I didn’t want to notice
The stains that are permanent
They say you can’t love the unloved
Or embrace the tarnished
With a naive intent
You must always gauge
The weight you ought to carry
But I am not the rolling stone
That carries no moss
Neither the sun
That finally broke off
And took its trajectory
Way across
A horizon
That still wasn’t enough
To keep me
So like a caged bird
That finally stops
I gave up my walls
I tried not to fight anymore
The bridges that had burnt
Were a lesson
To stop finding a way home
And the spring that came
Only mattered
For a few frivolous moments
My heart had already
Submerged in the aging jars
Of melancholy
Sometimes surrendering
And loving
Both look the same
Only few know what it’s like
To slowly die each day
Trying to live
According to someone else’s will
Sometimes I look at myself
And barely recognise
What I’ve become
Shadow of my words
An echo of a sad poem
Sometimes I crack
And smile
With deep moroseness
I wish I wasn’t here
That this life wasn’t mine
These pages belonged
Somewhere else
This pain wasn’t this despised
And yet,
I must wake up
Consciously
To this funeral
That rises each morning
And the mourning
Continues till late at night
Somehow I was meant
To keep a secret
A lie of a life lived
And was meant to name it
Fulfilled
When in reality
It’s all empty
Compiled by SK
